We have always had a tradition of tromping out into the cold on the tree farm, examining the noble fir, the grand fir, the Turkish fir, circling round and round each one until we found that perfect Christmas tree. We’d note the location and then make a quick lap around a few other trees “just to be sure.” We always came back to that first tree, and re-confirmed to each other that it was the right one to begin with. This year, in the rushed, frenzied days that we call Christmas, amid soccer tournaments and parties and dinners with friends, I found the days dwindling down towards Christmas and we had not gotten our tree yet. On a Monday afternoon, I picked the kids up from school and we drove out to the tree farm where we always cut our tree every year. On Christmas weekends in years past, when we normally are there, the place is packed with families, fanning out among the evergreens like animals scurrying from a fire. But that Monday evening, we were the only family there. A lumbering St. Bernard sauntered up to greet us as we piled out of the car, and the one attendant on duty pointed out where we could find the various varieties of trees. The air was crisp, the wind was blowing gently among the trees, and we all walked in silence for a while just looking for the right tree to cut. It wasn’t long before we found the right one, cut it down with a loud “TIMBER” from us all, and in minutes had it tied securely to the roof of the car. Every year the kids get to pick out an ornament, so we took a quick detour into the gift shop, where my son picked out a trout ornament and my daughter a crystal one.
We returned from the excursion too tired on Monday to decorate the tree, so we decided to tackle it the next evening. On Tuesday, we threw a log in the fireplace, decorated the tree, and sipped hot cocoa and hot apple cider while Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra belted out the traditional favorites. The kids were heading to their mom’s for a few days the next morning, and then the three of us were heading to Alabama for a week to visit my family, so as I sat there in the glow of the fire after the kids were asleep, it seemed like an awful lot of effort for what amounted to really one night of a decorated Christmas tree for the three of us to enjoy. After Christmas, as I prepared to start taking down the tree and Christmas decorations, I began to look at the ornaments on the tree – the trout, the crystal, a small train that my own mother gave me when I was 6, all of the other ornaments from each of my children’s and my own Christmases. The warm rush of my own memories and our traditions, as well as those that I hope my children will look back on and remember when they are older, really answered any questions that I might have ever had.
Between now and the next Christmas tree and new ornaments, I wish you all a happy and prosperous New Year.
Jane Kenyon
(1947 – 1995)
Taking Down The Tree
“Give me some light!” cries Hamlet’s
uncle midway through the murder
of Gonzago. “Light! Light!” cry scattering
courtesans. Here, as in Denmark,
it’s dark at four, and even the moon
shines with only half a heart.
The ornaments go down into the box:
the silver spaniel, My Darling
on its collar, from Mother’s childhood
in Illinois; the balsa jumping jack
my brother and I fought over,
pulling limb from limb. Mother
drew it together again with thread
while I watched, feeling depraved
at the age of ten.
With something more than caution
I handle them, and the lights, with their
tin star-shaped reflectors, brought along
from house to house, their pasteboard
toy suitcases increasingly flimsy.
Tick, tick, the desiccated needles drop.
By suppertime all that remains is the scent
of balsam fir. If it’s darkness
we’re having, let it be extravagant.
